Thieves! (4 page)

“What did Kelvin make of it?” I intended to grill Mrs. Evans later on.

Whittler took a sip of tea. “I always say, there’s nothing like the first sip of a freshly brewed pot of tea.”

“Did Kelvin mention the police thought she could be a gypsy?”

Startled, Whittler looked up sharply. He must have inhaled a cake crumb because a violent fit of coughing followed.

I jumped up. “I’ll get you some water.”

“No need,” he croaked, eyes bulging. Spluttering, Whittler reached for the sherry and drank straight from the bottle. Gradually he recovered his breath. “Goodness. Well, I never. We haven’t had gypsies in these parts since I was a teenager. Barbara caused quite a scandal, I recall.”

This didn’t surprise me. Barbara had been notoriously wild in her youth and never let anyone forget it.

“Stalk said a few gypsies had arrived in Upper Gipping.” I cut myself another slice of Victoria sponge.

“I only hope the poor dead woman isn’t a gypsy.” Whittler dabbed his eyes with a paper napkin, adding darkly, “For your sake.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know anything about gypsy funerals?”

I shrugged. “No. Why?”

“My colleague officiated at one in St. Jude’s in Teignmouth a few years ago,” said Whittler. “Over three hundred gypsies turned up.”

“Three
hundred
?” I squeaked. The
Gazette
prided itself on being one of the few newspapers in the country that recorded the names of every single mourner. How would I ever cope?

“Oh yes. It was like an invasion,” Whittler said with relish. “Gypsy funerals are quite something. It’s traditional for relatives from all over the country to come and pay their last respects. Festivities can go on for days. My colleague told me that after the service, they even dug a hole in the church car park and roasted a whole pig.”

“A
pig
!” I gasped. “I suppose it will make a change from the usual sherry and fruitcake.”

“One of their customs is to burn the wagon of the deceased with all their possessions in it,” said Whittler. “They perform a ritual destruction. I’m told it’s quite astonishing to watch.”

“Even now? With modern trailer caravans?”

“Oh yes. Imagine if my parishioners decided to do the same?” Whittler chuckled. “There would be fires burning in Gipping every single day.”

I believed it. I went to at least seven funerals a week.

“They’re all dreadful thieves,” Whittler went on cheerfully. “Steal anything not bolted down. She’ll be buried at St. Peter’s naturally. You’d better prepare yourself.”

And with that worrying thought, I said, “I really must go.”

“Wait! I almost forgot,” said Whittler. “We must toast Gladys. More sherry?”

“I’m fine.” Mine was still untouched. I still couldn’t get used to the tea-sherry-cake mixture of flavors first thing in the morning. Whittler refilled his glass and offered up a little prayer. I drank it down in one go and got to my feet. “Don’t forget to post that envelope, Vicky,” he said. “There’s a very large check in there.”

Reassuring him that I’d physically take it to the main post office in the High Street, I bid the vicar good-bye and walked back to the car park to collect my Fiat.

It sounded as if things were soon going to get very lively in Gipping-on-Plym.

T
o my disappointment, there wasn’t a gypsy to be seen in Gipping-on-Plym. It was business as usual.

Knowing the four-space car park behind the
Gazette
would already be full, I left my Fiat in the alley adjacent to The Copper Kettle across the street. Topaz Potter, who owned the café as well as The Grange, charged me one pound—paid in advance—for the privilege. It was easier than having to use the free parking lot half a mile away.

To my surprise, there was no sign of Topaz’s red Ford Capri and, emerging from the side passage, I noted that the café blinds were at half-mast. On the front door was a sign saying CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

How odd. I’d only seen Topaz yesterday, and she hadn’t mentioned she was going away. I stooped down to peer under the blinds and saw the wooden chairs turned upside down on the Formica tabletops.

“She’s gone, then,” came a hard voice.

I jumped up to find two of my regular mourners, Florence Tossell and Amelia Webster. “It certainly looks like it,” I said.

“I knew she couldn’t keep that place going,” said Florence, fiddling with the wart on her chin. “Didn’t I tell you, Amelia?”

Amelia nodded. Both ladies wore crimplene summer dresses and hand-knitted cardigans, but Amelia had added a large straw-colored floppy hat despite the fact the day was overcast. “People prefer The Warming Pan,” she said. “And her food was overpriced and tasted dreadful.”

I had to agree with her on all counts. I ate at the Kettle only out of a misguided sense of loyalty.

“We were hoping to bump into you,” said Florence. “Is it true that the gypsies are back at The Grange?”

“
Back
at The Grange?” It would certainly explain Topaz’s sudden absence. Having inherited the estate from her uncle and aunt—Sir Hugh and Lady Clarissa Trewallyn—Topaz must have dropped everything and gone to protect her birthright.

Topaz didn’t live at The Grange. She didn’t use her real name, either—namely that of Lady Ethel Turberville-Spat. For reasons that still remained a mystery to me, Topaz fancied herself as Gipping’s local vigilante, adopting the pseudonym of Topaz Potter and doing a terrible job of running a café as a front.

“Oh yes. In Sir Hugh’s day, they used to camp there every summer,” said Florence. “Remember all that scandal with Barbara?”

Barbara again. Here she was more than forty years later and still unable to escape her past.

“We’re awfully worried about Saturday’s Morris Dance-a-thon,” Amelia said. “My husband, Jack, is the Ranids’s squire this year.”

“Squire?” I said.

“It’s the squire’s job to run the program and call the dances,” said Amelia. “Jack threatened to burn down all their caravans if they weren’t gone by Saturday.”

Amelia’s hand fluttered to her floppy hat. She pulled the brim down, hard. Jack Webster was notorious for his temper, which often turned violent after a few glasses of lethal Devon scrumpy. I took a closer look at Amelia’s face and fancied I saw a yellowing bruise above her right eyebrow.

“When Jack came to pick you up last night from Barbara’s,” I said, “did he take the shortcut through Mudge Lane?”

“Jack didn’t show up,” said Florence, throwing her arm protectively around her friend’s shoulders. “Eric and I had to take her home.”

“It wasn’t that he forgot,” protested Amelia. “He’d been drinking at the Three Tuns and didn’t want to lose his license.”

“Doesn’t he drive a green Land Rover?” I said.

“All the farmers round here have green Land Rovers,” snapped Florence.

“Was he out shooting rabbits?”

“Why are you asking all these questions?” Amelia sounded upset.

“Just curious.” It dawned on me that news of the woman’s demise might have reached the vicarage but not the High Street. Yet.

“If anyone was shooting rabbits, it would be those gypsies poaching. Mark my words. We don’t want thieving gypsies in Gipping, with their filthy children and rabid dogs—”

“And all the nasty rubbish they leave behind,” said Amelia. “They don’t use toilets, you know.” She pulled a face. “They just go number one
and
number two in the woods.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Florence sharply. “These days they have all the mod cons and demand equal rights. My sister lives in Brighton, and she said they had some gypsies passing through only last month, and one of them drove a flashy silver Winnebago with a satellite dish! Imagine!”

At the sound of clopping hooves, Amelia turned to Florence and said, “Mod cons? Just look at that!”

A pretty green-and-yellow-painted bowtop wagon, drawn by a glossy-coated skewbald pony in a gleaming harness, trotted on by. Bells tinkled cheerfully, and the
clink, clink
of metal pots and pans fastened to the guardrails seemed to play a magical melody of their own. So much for the dirty old vans!

At the reins stood a handsome man in his late twenties looking very Pirates-of-the-Caribbean. Dressed in black jeans and a white shirt with balloon sleeves, he sported a mustache and wore his long dark-brown hair tied back in a ribbon.

Catching my eye, the man gave me a stunning smile that made me blush. On impulse, I waved.

“What are you doing?” hissed Florence. “Don’t encourage him, you stupid girl.”

“I was just being friendly,” I said, gazing after the departing wagon and wondering if there was a real bed inside. Frankly, I found gypsy life fascinating and romantic—life on the open road. Singing around a campfire. Sleeping under the stars.

Two women followed on foot. One looked a few years older than me, with long dark hair and a hard face. Dressed in a traditional ankle-length skirt and white peasant long-sleeved blouse, she carried an open basket.

“Lucky heather?” she said, walking up to us. “Keep you safe from the evil eye.”

“Shoo!” said Florence, flapping her hands. “Go away.”

“I’ll take one,” I said firmly. If I had to report on this funeral, I couldn’t afford to upset the mourners.

“That’ll be three pounds, and don’t ask for change.”

Three pounds!
The young woman thrust a tiny bunch of lilac heather tied with a red ribbon into my hands. I noticed her nails were long like talons. I took out my wallet, annoyed that I only had a fiver, and handed it over. She snatched it and headed off for another unsuspecting member of the public.

“You got ripped off,” scoffed Florence. “Three pounds!”

“Five, actually,” I grumbled.

“No, thank you,” said Amelia as a second gypsy woman in her late sixties limped over with a stack of flyers peeping out of a canvas shopping bag. “Please go away.”

The woman had obviously been a beauty in her heyday. She wore her gray hair coiled on top of her head and enormous hoop earrings. A long, red dirndl skirt, matching blouse, and fringed shawl completed her outfit.

“Can I have a flyer?” I said.

“Bless you, me angel,” said the woman, shooting Amelia a venomous look and adding, “And you should watch that husband of yours. One day he’ll go too far.” She limped after the disappearing wagon.

My stomach turned over.
Perhaps he already had!

“What a horrible woman,” gasped Amelia. “What a thing to say!”

I studied the flyer ROAMING RIGHTS FOR ROMANIES! WE CAMP BECAUSE WE CAN! with Florence—smelling strongly of cooked bacon—reading aloud over my shoulder. “‘Shortage of residential and transit authorized sites, retrospective planning permission holdups, lack of health care and education, poor environmental conditions, unemployment’—blah, blah, blah. I told you so!” she said, stabbing the paper with her finger. “They’re playing the human rights card. They’re here to stay. Just you see.”

“Oh dear,” said Amelia. “Jack is going to go berserk.”

Realizing I’d wasted precious minutes chatting, I said, “I really must get to work.”

“Can you ask Barbara when she intends to finish the window?” said Florence. “The Morris Dance-a-thon is only a few days away.”

I looked across the street and saw newspaper still taped up inside the show window.

“Jack wanted me to make sure the Ranids’s mascot was in the center,” said Amelia. “It’s so unlike Barbara. I suppose she’s too busy with her wedding plans.”

Promising them I’d find out, I bid my good-byes and left.

Life was certainly never dull in Gipping-on-Plym.

“
O
h, I’m so glad you’re here,” said Olive Larch, looking distinctly frazzled. Three large cardboard boxes were standing at the foot of the padlocked wooden shutters that screened the display window.